


This is Art

by ProcrastinatingSab



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drugs, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Violence, Whump, strapped down, strapped to an operating table
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/pseuds/ProcrastinatingSab
Summary: Malcolm gets kidnapped by the surgeon's crazy fans.~~~BTHB - Strapped to an Operating Table
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687015
Comments: 26
Kudos: 123





	This is Art

This is Art

“When I told my therapist I needed to feel more appreciated, _this_ was not what I had in mind,” Malcolm was slurring his speech and staring stupidly at the two figures hovering over him. His head was still reeling from the drug they slipped in his drink, and he was only able to make out their blurry outlines. 

His tottering form was slammed against a metal table that they modified to incapacitate him. He felt his jacket, necktie, and shoes removed. Then, his wrists and ankles were roughly handled and locked in leather cuffs, hands above his head, legs shoulder-length apart. The leather straps used were worn out from overuse, so they had to tighten them a bit more to ensure he remained immobilized. Throughout the whole process, he barely struggled, too dazed to focus, only managing a few remarks here and there, which were mostly ignored. 

He heard the sound of fabric being torn, then felt a fresh breeze on his left arm. He winced as one of his captors inserted an IV into his veins and watched as his blood started running through the plastic drip and collecting into the blood bag at his side. At the angle his hands were tied in, the blood was not flowing fast, which is what they intended; a slow and continuous flow. Once they finished and made sure their setup was ready, they backed away and left.

He moved his head from side to side, trying to shake the drug away, which was in vain. Part of him recognized the danger he was in, but the adrenaline his body produced was not sufficient to overcome the haziness and numbness he felt. And to make matters worse, out of all days, he chose tonight to break his no drinking rule and helped himself to a glass of Whiskey offered by his captor. Now, as he lay, bound, dazed, and his blood being drained, he was still able to assess his situation. It wasn’t good news, he concluded. He was simply _screwed_. 

By the time they came back, he was barely conscious. One of them approached him, pulled his head to one side roughly - exposing his neck- and then injected him with something. Whatever it was, it helped his mind crawl back from the depths of unconsciousness. 

The light from the overhead lamp was too strong and made the task of opening his eyes exceedingly difficult. The light invaded his irises in such a blinding capacity, heightednd by the drugs in his system, that he squinted them shut again and groaned. The stabbing pain behind his eyes was not helping. Each thunderous throb echoed with an intensity that threatened to engulf him and pull him into the much welcome darkness. He blinked once, twice, trying to push the daze away and take in his surroundings. Eventually, his vision cleared, and the shadows lurking started taking shape. 

The man was tall, dark with broad shoulders. _His dark hair was tied in a bun?_ He was not sure of anything else beyond the basic description. 

She, on the other hand, was different.

Her image was drilled inside his mind the moment he set eyes on her. A woman like her was not easy to forget. Even as he looked at her now, dressed up in an oversized hoodie and staring at him with an unsettling gaze, he could only conjure up the image of her when they met.

The low musical voice hiding a trace of a French accent.The deep hazel eyes, the straight chiseled nose, and childlike mouth. The waist-length auburn hair hanging freely around her face. The red silk dress that hugged her delicate frame. The graceful way she held herself. She had him under her spell the moment she approached him. Malcolm was not this type of guy, but something about her was just so bedazzling that it made him forget his common sense. 

_Sylvie._ Or so she said her name was.

It was the Annual Harvard Student Association Party, and he really did not want to go. He managed to skip the event the previous years and was content to stay in his dorm room studying criminal psychology and reading about forensic sciences. This time had planned to work on his Quantico application, but he also promised Gil and Jackie that he will go. So he got dressed in his overpriced fancy tuxedo and went there and prayed that the party will end soon so he can leave. 

But then she approached him, a beautiful girl he wouldn’t even dream of talking to. She flirted with him, feigning interest in what he said and laughed at his jokes. It was something he never experienced before, and it made him giddy with excitement and ready to impress. They spent the night together, standing in one corner of the ballroom, ignoring everyone around them.

Sylvie said she was an art major, _but he didn’t remember ever seeing her around campus._

She also knew his name, _which_ **_to think of it_ ** _now was also a red flag._

But he was not thinking at all. 

So when she offered him a drink, he didn’t object. 

When he felt dizzy, and she volunteered to help him to his room, he gladly accepted. 

When, instead of going to his dorm, he was pushed into the backseat of a car, he was mildly confused. 

And now he’s here.

  
  


Feeling a weird pricking sensation in his arm, he strained his neck to look at it, pulled up over his head, and noticed the trail of crimson. He followed the tube connected to the blood bag, and he winced, putting two and two together. His blood was being drained. So that’s why he was feeling so lightheaded and extra nauseous. But why? And who are those people? 

The realization of what was happening was enough to kick his mind into full gear. In his panic, he started to thrash against his bonds and frantically call for help. 

They watched him with amused eyes, “No one will find you here, Malcolm Whitly. I’d save my strength if I were you.” 

His struggles were futile, of course, even he knew that. But the crippling fear was eating at his heart like a hungry predator, and he just had _to do_ something. After a while, he just stopped, resigned that he will not be heard, and closed his eyes. Tears trickled down his temples in silence. 

Sylvie, or whatever her name was, cupped his cheeks and wiped his tears away, “don’t worry my darling, you will make the best sacrifice yet,” she cooed mockingly. 

The laugher that followed filled him with such sinking dread, and he let out a choked sob. Shuddering breaths shook his entire frame, but he stopped himself from crying. Because despite the hopelessness that overwhelmed him, one thought kept him sane, and he clung to it with all his might. 

Gil will find him.

Malcolm didn’t know how, and if he thought much into it, he would have realized it made no sense. Gil was 4 hours away, did not even know he was kidnapped, and even if he did, he wouldn’t know where they took him. His common sense told him that, but he ignored it. He just kept silently praying that Gil will find and save him. 

So he did not cry. He will be strong for Gil when he comes. He would not cry. 

He watched them, huddled over a canvas, with a curious expression. They were _painting_? 

It made no sense. But nothing about this made any sense. Every once in awhile, Sylvie would come to ensure that he was still breathing, check the drip, exchange the blood bag if it was full, and leave. Time passed. He didn’t know how long he was left here bleeding, or how many times they changed the blood bag. 

He was feeling so weak, and his body trembled and broke into a sweat. It was cold and hellishly hot at the same time, and he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. He looked at the bag collecting his blood with pain glazed eyes. An adult male could lose up to 40% of his blood and survive. He knew that. But how much had he lost already? How much more could he bleed before Gil saved him? _If he ever came_. He couldn’t hold the tears in anymore, and he silently wept his despair away.

The next time she came, he startled from his stupor and starting to weakly wriggle against his restraints. His voice cracked, and a fresh wave of tears poured down as he began to beg, “stop - just please- please- I can’t,” he sniffed “Just … take it out. It hurts.”

“Hush my little thing,” she murmured, leaning closer to his ear, her musical voice now sounding like poison to his ears, “you look so pathetic, your father would be ashamed of you.”

Then she just snatched the needle from his arm without any care and he cried out. A line of crimson was now trailing along his arms like rivers. 

“Aaah- nghhha. Gil is… he’s going to be so disappointed in me,” he sighed, talking to no one in particular. 

“I wouldn’t worry too much about what your friend thinks, honey. You should worry about yourself,” She laughed mirthlessly. 

“Why are you doing this?” he managed through the moans of pain, desperately trying to talk his way out of this. The man was the one who answered him this time, as he stood up and made his way to the table. 

“It is art! It is a tribute to one of the greatest minds out there. Call it what you want. Appreciation of the genius. A love letter to the prodigy. It doesn’t matter what you call it. What matters is that _he_ will see it. Martin Whitly, the legend,” he laughed nervously and rubbed his hands. Only then did Malcolm notice that they were bright red. 

If he was scared before, now he was horrified. He gagged as his stomach contents threatened to come out. _They were painting a tribute to his father using his own blood._

His breathing hitched as he, once more, attempted to struggle against the restraints. He no longer cared about being brave and was overcome with an incessant need to flee this horrendous madness, this nightmare he suddenly woke up in. So he struggled and struggled, thrashing his head across the table between gut-wrenching sobs that hacked his body, hoping for any reprieve. There was none. He couldn’t keep fighting for long though, the effort was too much in his state. 

“GG...gil _ple--heaaase_ ,” he pleaded frantically when he stopped struggling, his speech barely recognizable at all. 

“We are just missing the _final_ piece,” the man snickered and looked at Sylvie, who was staring at their captive with hungry eyes full of bloodlust. 

“Of course, I have been dying to do this since we laid eyes on him.”

In a second, she was on top of him, planting both of her knees on either side of his body and sitting on his hips. She used a knife to cut open his dress shirt and stared at his bare chest. 

“Aren’t you a pretty boy. Look him Marcus, Such a treat!”

She bit her lips in anticipation and ran her hands all over him, her cold, bloody fingers rubbing his shoulders, moving along his collarbone, sliding across his chest, smearing him with his own blood. She moaned with desire as he shuddered beneath her. 

“Please - please stop! Oh god... stop.”

“Wonder what it will feel like,” she hissed in his ears, “cutting you open, ripping your heart out. Holding it in my hand.” 

He flinched at the idea, “you - you are crazy,” he rasped out. It earned him a slap so sudden and so sharp his head banged against the table, and his lips started bleeding.

“Stop playing with him and cut him already. We need to finish the canvas.” Marcus was saying nervously.

_Cut ccuut him?_ His eyes shot open so fast, and he stared at them, at her, at the knife in her hand, at her blood-chilling smile and unhinged eyes. _Oh, this was worse than he thought._

The air suddenly left his lung as she brought down the knife to his chest, its tip touching his skin and lingering there for a second. 

Then she pressed it.

He was sure he felt the cut burning, but the aspect of him being carved open alive, and seeing his own blood was enough to drive him into mass hysteria.

“Helppppp….” he screamed and writhed, “heeelp! Somebody help me”

The knife dug deep and started sliding across his chest. The blood trickled across his stomach and pooled around the table. 

“Help _me_... Please. Please, please.” his last attempt was weak and small and pathetic. 

His vision was fading, and he knew this was it. He wished he could see Ainsley one more time, try to fix things with his mother. He wished he hugged Jackie harder the last time he saw her. He wished he told Gil that he was the father he always needed. 

Too late now. 

Oh, Gil is looking at him now. He smiled. That is better. He won’t be alone when he goes to sleep. 

When the darkness totally engulfed him, he was grateful.

* * *

  
  


His senses returned to him gradually. At first, he heard the sound of the monitor beeping in the near vicinity. Then he tasted the anesthesia on his lips. Then he felt _everything else_ ; the incessant throbbing of his head, the hammering pain in his chest, and the numbness in his limbs. He also felt firm, warm hands caressing his arm. 

He dared to open his eyes, all but ready to find himself still strapped to the table at worst, or at best, he would find himself dead. Instead, he was greeted with hospital lights and a comfortable bed. But most importantly, the person holding his hand was _here_.

Gil. 

Gil had been staring at one spot on the wall and crying softly. He stirred when he heard Malcolm move and immediately smiled.

“Hey, kid,” his voice was still choked with unshed tears. 

“Hey,” Malcolm’s lips trembled as answered, “Gil… you found me… _how?_ ”

“Of course I did, not soon enough, though. We almost lost you,” he couldn’t hold back the tears. 

Malcolm reached his arm out, and Gil moved in hugged him, carefully trying not to touch any of the 16 stitches on his chest where the crazy bitch cut him. Malcolm sobbed softly into his embrace, so relieved that Gil was real, and here hugging him, that he wasn’t hallucinating, that he wasn’t dead.

He remained cuddled in Gil’s strong embrace until his sobbing subdued into soft whimpers, and then his breathing evened. 

Gil let go and straightened back in his seat by Malcolm’s bed. He rubbed his own tears away and told him about Sylvie and Marcus, who came to visit the surgeon a few weeks back and were, obviously, denied access. 

Malcolm listened in a daze as he told him that they had been sending his father fan mail and promised to gift him the ultimate tribute to showcase their devotion. He explained how the police had been tracking them and how they went off the radar about four days ago. And then how when Malcolm failed to answer his phone, he got worried and tracked his phone. He told him about the police search and how they located him, how Gil shot the bitch as she was carving him with a knife, how he rushed him to the hospital, how he had almost lost him. 

Malcolm blinked a couple of times, when Gil finished his narrative, taking it all in. The gravity of the situation was dawning with full facts and staring him in the face.

He was kidnapped by crazy fans of the surgeon who painted a canvas using his blood and wanted to cut him open and pull his heart out. 

It all felt like a story from a book, a movie, too crazy to have happened to him. Yet more insane things have happened already. He was the son of a renounced serial killer after all. 

After what seemed like a century, he looked at Gil and felt guilty seeing all that worry and pain in his face. 

Gil was always there, _always_. Martin wasn’t. 

Gil was his home after his own crumbled down with Martin’s arrest. 

Gil was the safe haven, the final destination, the warmth and kindness he always craved and wanted. 

Gil saw his mess and yet came back, again, and again, and again. Saved him. Listened to him. Protected him. 

Gil was everything Martin Whitly never was. 

He took a deep breath between aching wounds and made the decisions he was supposed to do years ago. 

“I don’t think I want to continue visiting my father anymore. I am applying to Quantico and… and after this,” he gestured at his chest, “...I need to stop.”

“Sure, kid, whatever you want. I am always here to support you, no matter what.”

Malcolm smiled, the relief washing over him. His horrific ordeal left behind, and his bodily pains were forgotten. “Gil... I love you!” Malcolm blurted out, eyes overpouring with gratitude.

“Me too, Malcolm. I love you too.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> My first BTHB :3
> 
> I hope I am doing this thing right.


End file.
